


Dip

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2721227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo sustains an injury, and Smaug doesn’t know if he can fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dip

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BonnefoyBaggins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonnefoyBaggins/gifts).



> A/N: For bonnefoybaggins’ “How would Smaug react to Bilbo dying or being seriously Injured?” prompt on [my tumblr.](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

As the winter draws nearer, the animals scatter, squeezing into little nooks and crannies to hide from the snow, sleeping in or hibernating and so much sparser on land. It drives Smaug out to hunt more often, gathering food for the coming cold, building up their stores. He swoops down the mountainside and soars across the valley, around the back of where the mortals’ village lies. He chases a herd of wild deer alone, devoid of the little rider that usually sits on his back, for though Bilbo needs to eat, he doesn’t have much stomach for the hunt. This frees Smaug to pull more daring moves, to be more ferocious with his fire, and when his prey hit the sheer wall of a cliff, he gives them no time to turn. He envelops them in a cloud of bristling flames that turns the trees to ash and leaves the air a blackened, smoldering mess. A puff of air through his nostrils and he puts out the lingering blaze; no need to burn down his home. He lands in the battered clearing, claws curling around the charred hulk of a fallen buck. 

And the wind brings him a strangled cry, something snatched away on the wind that no other creature could hear. The voice that made it is small and delicate, but Smaug’s ears are tuned to this, his being always focused on his most precious treasure. His neck snaps around, peering at the mountain where he left his tiny hobbit to smoke a wooden pipe and view the world, but even a dragon’s eyes can’t see that far. 

His wings beat against his side, and he’s in the air in a heartbeat, buck toppling, forgotten, out of his open claws. He zooms at the mountain with a speed that would put light and sound and even thought to shame. Another anguished sound flies past him, and the great strings of his heart constrict, fury and _fear_ clogging his throat with flame. There are tales that say a dragon can’t feel fear, but those are the same tales that preclude a dragon from love. 

His love is back against the mountain’s wall, nestled into a rocky ledge where he could watch the sun wash over the valley, but that view is now obscured. Bilbo is on his back, a pack of wolves around him, and for one terrifying, sickening moment, Smaug thinks he’s too late; he’s let a pathetic band of pests devour his beloved hobbit. A wolf is half atop Bilbo, fangs bared and ready to strike, while Bilbo curls in on himself, arms protectively over his head. Smaug should never have let him out without a weapon. Smaug should never have left him at all. Smaug is nearly possessed with his protectiveness, and he swarms in without a second thought, mouth opening wide enough to snatch the wolf atop Bilbo right off in his teeth, his grand head and neck and body and wings following to scatter the rest of the pack. He tosses the one in his mouth out across the sky, full of malice—he wouldn’t even want to eat something so vile. Then he’s circling back down to snatch at all the creatures foolish enough to linger, teeth and claws ripping right through fur and flesh. The pack scatters. They’re little, cowardly things with no magic so to speak and no intelligence at all. He crushes them like insects and chases down the ones that run, knocking three at a time over with his tail, sending fire after those that make it too far away. The entire thing is over in under a minute, the pack slaughtered like so much dust. If Smaug had nothing else to do, he’d torch their remains just for his own satisfaction; the rage has boiled his blood into acid. 

But even in his crazed revenge, he knows he’s needed elsewhere, and the second the last one falls, he races back up the cliff. He finds his precious hobbit lying still against the stone, breathing hard and ragged. The panic seizes Smaug again; this is the danger in loving something mortal. 

He doesn’t know if he should move Bilbo, but he does know the mountain is too cold. The floor is too hard, and it isn’t safe, so he carefully gathers Bilbo up in his front paws, cradled like a doll. Bilbo rolls limply into his grip, eyes half closed and lost to the world. Smaug flies slowly and deliberately back through caverns at the top, keeping his claws and head in place to shield Bilbo from the rush of wind. Every breath that Bilbo takes sounds pained, and every one of them stabs at Smaug’s chest and wracks through his ears. He contemplates taking Bilbo to the elves instead, demanding they heal him under penalty of death, for what does he know of how to patch up mortal flesh? But he doesn’t know if they have time, or if elves would even know anything of hobbits. The greedy dwarves that used to live here wouldn’t. The men would only do more harm. The other halflings... Smaug doesn’t know. 

He takes Bilbo to one of the smaller caverns, the floor still piled in gold but more evenly spaced, low mounds instead of hills, with a pile of furs in the center for Bilbo to sleep on. Smaug gently places Bilbo in them. Bilbo tosses helplessly onto his back, and his mouth parts like he’s going to scream, but then he only chokes on air and drops his head to the side, coughing and wheezing. Smaug notices in the orange glow of the firelight off the coins that Bilbo’s hair is slicked to his forehead with sweat, his cheeks flushed. Smaug dips the tip of his claw into the seam of Bilbo’s long coat and nudges it open. The fur-laden ends slip down his sides, revealing pale skin dotted in splashes of red, a long, tattered gash running all the way from his hip to shoulder. It’s so soaked in blood that Smaug can’t tell how deep it goes. He acts immediately. 

He blows a whirl of magic over Bilbo’s body, glistening yellow smoke that engulfs Bilbo’s form: the unfocused, unbridled power of a _dragon_. Smaug doesn’t know if it can help, if his kind of abilities can heal a mortal’s wound, but he hopes desperately that it can. He pours everything he has into the effort of mending his mate, willing everything he is to do this one thing, if he never asks it for anything again, let his ancient magic heal this precious creature. The glow dissipates around Bilbo’s tiny silhouette, settles into his skin and sinks through the blood. Bilbo’s breath hitches, chest arching up. Smaug is stone still with his worry. Now that he’s had Bilbo, he knows that all the treasure in this mountain, all his gold, all his jewels, all his trophies—none of them will mean a thing if he loses Bilbo Baggins. 

Bilbo breathes like it’s a chore. He groans and rolls his head in the fur, eyes falling shut and limbs immobile, and every agonized noise he makes rips through Smaug’s chest. In this moment, he’d do anything to take Bilbo’s pain away. He murmurs in his deep, hulking voice, “I am _so_ sorry, little one. I should never have left you.”

Bilbo shakes his head faintly, opens his mouth and only whimpers, then licks his lips and tries again. Nothing comes out. Smaug lifts a claw to carefully wipe Bilbo’s honey bangs off his sweat-slicked forehead. 

“Could they fix this in the Shire, if I brought you?” Smaug asks, hoping for a yes, even though he knows the Shire is dreadfully far away. He wants to do something _now_. He needs to get water and wash the blood off Bilbo’s stomach, at least see what he’s up against, but he doesn’t dare leave Bilbo’s side. His only solace is that it isn’t bubbling fresh, isn’t trickling out; perhaps the magic has stoppered the wound? Bilbo shakes his head again and reaches up a wavering hand. 

He mumbles, “No.” Smaug presses the end of his muzzle down into Bilbo’s tiny palm, skin alight with that one patch of warm flesh against his scales. Bilbo gasps and whines, “I don’t... don’t want to leave you.” Another hitch of breath and he practically sobs, “ _Smaug_... it _hurts_...”

“I’m so sorry,” Smaug repeats. “So sorry.” He nuzzles into Bilbo’s hand, presses a little further forward so he can nudge against Bilbo’s face, nuzzle carefully into Bilbo’s cheek and promise fiercely, “I won’t go anywhere, my hobbit. I am here.” Bilbo manages a weak smile, but it quickly fades. 

And then Bilbo lapses into a quiet, shuddering state. Smaug doesn’t know what to do, so simply curls around him, keeps him warm and protects him and occasionally breathes magic over him, willing him to heal. When he does try to speak, he sounds delirious, and his eyes are hazy, and sometimes it seems like he might be asleep, and that sets Smaug’s teeth on edge, cautious of every breath and willing it not to be the last. Bilbo is like this for minutes, for hours. Smaug lies with him until it grows undeniable that he’s in need of food and water, and then Smaug carefully detangles himself and takes off like an arrow. 

He fetches a barrel, scoops it full of water from the underground stream, gathers up cooked meat from their stores, swoops back and takes care of his Bilbo, helps Bilbo to take in the sustenance. It’s hard to watch his magic dip a tiny cup into the water, lift meat to Bilbo’s mouth, see it work there but not _know_ if it can stitch together Bilbo’s skin. When Smaug manages to clean away the blood, the cut looks far too shallow for the amount that was there—perhaps his magic is working? But is it fast enough? And Bilbo still _hurts_ , and that makes Smaug miserable. 

For two days, Smaug’s eternal life is counted by crawling seconds. He only leaves Bilbo’s side when he must, and Bilbo is more often unconscious than not, never quite coherent even when his eyes open, never all the way. For most of the time, Smaug has nothing to do but curl around his hobbit, determined to keep his lover safe, stares at his mate and wills the world to work the way he needs it to. He knows Bilbo is made of mortal flesh, but he isn’t _ready_. Bilbo is too young, too beautiful to be lost so soon. He deserves so much _more_. It breaks Smaug to watch the diminishment of Bilbo’s life, reduced just to writhing and whimpers. 

On the third day, the conscious moments don’t come at all. Bilbo sleeps and sleeps, his stomach now a smooth, spotless expanse—not even a scar. But Smaug knows the cut was far deeper than he’d hoped and doesn’t know if he can fix that. The fight seems to be leaving Bilbo’s body. He doesn’t groan or squirm anymore, only breathes shallowly. Though Smaug’s been keeping Bilbo alive with food and drink, on this last day, he can’t bring himself to wake Bilbo up and disturb this illusion of peace. He lets Bilbo sleep for a long, long time. 

And then, when it’s been so long that Smaug’s body feels like it’s turning to stone, Bilbo’s eyes flutter open again, his breath breaking off. He makes a tiny squeak of a gasp, then yawns, chapped lips wide and open. When he’s done, his cute eyes bat open again, looking up at Smaug with such an adorable, sleepy smile that it almost erases the pain of all the injury. Almost. His chin bends down to touch his chest and he gazes down his stomach, stares at the smooth skin there and looks back up at Smaug. Around another yawn, he mumbles softly, “You saved me.”

Smaug tries to answer but instead chokes, mingled worry and relief cloying to burst through his scales. Finally he whispers, “How do you feel, my Bilbo?”

“Tired,” Bilbo sighs, and he tries to push up onto his elbows but just falls back to the furs, amending to, “and weak.” Smaug nods his great head—he can fetch more food, more water—he’ll take care of Bilbo, nurse him back to health. It means so much to see him smile, to see him breathe without the labour of it, to hear his voice not laced with pain. A great weight has lifted from Smaug’s shoulders, a heavy ache poured out of his flesh. He means to fetch his Bilbo supplies, but instead he’s just stuck staring, taking it all in, appreciating the show of life for the marvel that it is. Bilbo’s eyebrow knit together suddenly, head tilting. His matted hair brushes around his little, pointed ears, and he asks, “Smaug... are you crying?”

He didn’t realize he was. But when he slides his lids across his irises, he catches water on the ends. When he chuckles, his breath wafts over Bilbo in a cloud of steam that makes Bilbo smile just the way it used to. “You didn’t think we dragons could?” Typical mortal myth. But a dragon’s heart is as dynamic as any other. 

Bilbo doesn’t answer. He just opens his arms, unable to rise himself, and Smaug lowers the tip of his muzzle into them, hugging Bilbo as best he can in this form. Bilbo clutches to his face, kisses his scales and murmurs, “Shh, I’m alright.”

That’s all Smaug ever wanted. He nuzzles into his most prized treasure until Bilbo rasps for water, and then Smaug’s soaring off again in a heartbeat, all for the care of his mate.


End file.
